Dean's Resume
by earth-dragon-1
Summary: Inspired by the poem 'Resume' by Dorothy Parker. Spoilers for season 9, and I assume the reader has some knowledge of the Mark of Cain, at least in the context of the show's canon. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be immortal? To not be able to die? Not even if you wanted to? Trigger warnings for suicide attempts, blood, gore, and body horror.


_Razors pain you;_

The left arm was pretty easy, all things considered; the wound is large but precise, gaping but practically surgical. It stings and burns like a bitch, but it's spilling out red just like it's supposed to. But now his hands are slick and shaking and he's having a hard time gripping.

He should have thought about this. He's right handed. He should have used the left hand to open the right wrist first. He might have had a little bit more control to do the other wrist then.

Oh well. What's done is done.

The right arm is a mess. The cut isn't as deep as the left, and it veers off center. It doesn't pour out as cleanly as the left arm, but it still pours. That's really all that matters.

The bathroom looks like a murder scene; the white porcelain is stained crimson and Dean spares a moment to think about what a bitch it's going to be to clean away all the blood. It's the last thought Dean has before darkness takes him.

_Rivers are damp;_

Dean was right. It was a bitch cleaning away all the blood in the bathroom. He had most of it up before Sam and Cas got back so he didn't think either of them noticed. Sam seems awfully reluctant to let him handle the demon knife now, though.

No matter.

There's a deep creek that runs about a mile behind the bunker. It's frigidly cold this time of year, parts of it are iced over; but not thickly, and that's what he's counting on. So far it's holding up, but he knows if he walks out far enough something is bound to start cracking.

Finally, Dean hears a tell-tell creaking, followed by a louder groan, and then everything suddenly gives way below him and he plunges. Dean's lungs fill with ice water. He is completely engulfed, frozen, too cold to even shiver; but it's funny how his lungs are starting to burn. He knows they're fighting for air, struggling for oxygen, crying out for it.

But they're going to be denied.

Dean knows it's an optical illusion, his oxygen-deprived brain just playing tricks on him, but it seems like the creek is a lot deeper than it was when he first fell in. It's deeper and darker, and he's not as cold now. He's glad for that. He feels sluggish, almost serene. Drowning really isn't so bad.

_Acids stain you;_

Dean was mad as hell when he woke up a mile and a half downstream, where the water was more shallow, less frozen. He had to walk two and half miles back to the bunker with his clothes soaking wet and freezing to his body. He told Cas and Sam he had fallen in a puddle.

Setbacks were disappointing, but Dean wasn't about to give up. Maybe he just needed to be more creative.

It took three months, a fake name, a fake credit card, a long-ass road trip, and one incredibly shady guy from Tijuana Mexico - but Dean finally got ahold of three bottles of undiluted, medical grade Hydrochloric Acid. He doesn't even bother going back to the motel; he just drives until nightfall and then parks his car far off the side of the road in the desert, removes his clothes, and douses himself.

And then he screams.

It's a good thing he's on a completely deserted stretch of desert highway, because the sounds that are coming out of what is left of his mouth are unholy. His left eyeball has dissolved right inside his skull and he's sure teeth are falling out of the hole left in the side of his face where his jawbone used to be.

It burns as bad as Hellfire, and he knows that for a fact. But he can't come back from this. Surely he can't. Dean screams until the acid eats away his vocal chords.

_And drugs cause cramp;_

Dean refused to explain why his face was scarred when he got back from the Tex-Mex border. He also refused to let Cas heal the scars.

Innovation didn't work. He had tried everything from the outside, though. Maybe he needed to try something internal. Sleeping pills and booze would be ingested. They would sit in his stomach, filter to his bloodstream, and eventually shut down his worthless body. That had to work.

But it didn't.

Dean consumed four bottles of sleeping pills and drank two bottles of vodka - and then he just threw it all back up six hours later. He told Sam and Cas he had the stomach flu.

_Guns aren't lawful;_

Dean tried absolutely everything. He shot himself in the head, in the heart, through the neck, with four different types of guns. The bullets all traveled right through him, so he just dropped them in the trash and cleaned up the blood. He ruined the bed set in his room, and Sam seemed terrified to ask why Dean was dragging his beloved memory foam mattress out to the burn pile.

_Nooses give;_

Dean actually woke up while still suspended by his neck from the rafters in the dungeon. It took him an hour to figure out how to get back down. He wanted to try it again using a chain but he couldn't find any, and Cas and Sam refused to tell him where it was.

_Gas smells awful;_

Dean has the oven cranked up as high as it will go. It's hot as Hell, charring his skin black in some places, and it smells terrible. But at least he's about to pass out.

Until two sets of hands suddenly, rudely grab the waistband of his jeans and haul him back out. He opens his mouth to yell, protest, but he finds the flesh of his lips have melted a bit and he's having a difficult time pulling them apart.

"Oh God! Dean!"

"Hold him still. Hold him still!"

Dean can't really see, his eyes are too cloudy, but he can't imagine who would have pulled him out of the oven. Who would want to save him?

Huge arms are cradling him against a solid chest, and he would almost think that was Sam if it wasn't for the fact that he knows Sam doesn't want anything to do with him. Hands press against his face and he feels the flesh knit back together. It seems like that should be the work of Cas, but Dean knows he doesn't deserve to be saved like this.

"No!" He can finally talk, protest. He struggles to throw himself back in the oven, but Sam's arms clench tight around him; Cas' hands hold him firmly down.

"What are you doing? Dean, what are you doing? STOP!"

"I was so close," he screams, tears running now from his repaired eyes. This is not at all what he wanted, what anybody wanted. "I was so close! Why did you stop me? It might have worked this time!"

"Oh Dean…" Cas whispers and hangs his head. Tears form in his own blue eyes and that makes no sense at all because angels do not cry, especially not over Dean Winchester.

His hands cup Dean's healed face and Dean struggles to pull away. Cas should not be touching him. No one should be touching him. No one's arms, especially not Sam's, should be around him, holding him up. He should be flinging himself back into the oven, or into a fire, or over a cliff, or under a bus.

"Dean you have to stop this. You have to stop!" Sam pleads. "We can't keep hiding everything from you. We can't keep you locked up. What would have happened if me and Cas hadn't found you here? What would have happened?"

Nothing.

Nothing would have happened, and that's the damnedest thing of all. Dean knows he deserves to die; he knows he deserves to go back to Hell for all the pain and destruction he's caused.

But he can't. He never will. No matter what he tries, he will never die.

Maybe the punishment really does fit the crime. Nothing could be worse than this.

_You might as well live._


End file.
